


Disappear Here

by VivaRocksteady



Series: Animal Predation [2]
Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: BDSM, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Dark, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, M/M, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tagging as I go, assassin holden, just an extravaganza of hate sex, more kinks to come, probably the darkest thing I've attempted to write, psychopath holden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-23 02:38:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16610300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivaRocksteady/pseuds/VivaRocksteady
Summary: A new world order has taken over the United States, and purged all federal agencies. Bill Tench was only allowed to live on the whims of operative Holden Ford. Now Bill is a prisoner in a gilded cage, a kept man, a sex slave-- and he's practicing for the day he can finally kill Holden.--You do not have to have read "Don't Let Me Disappear" to read this fic, and there is no longer any connection to Killing Eve in this story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't even know what the hell this is. This first chapter is exposition, and I just have a bunch of half-written sex scenes that will make up the rest. There is SORT of a story and an ending planned, but I'm not making any promises, lol. This will not be an uplifting or fun story. But hopefully at least some of it will be hot!

Sometimes, in an effort to use humour to maintain his sanity, Bill would reflect that his situation was probably a lot of guys’ fantasy come true. 

Two willing young people were bent over the couch, naked. A boy and a girl. Both fit and gorgeous, both eager for his cock, both with hands cuffed behind their backs. Completely at his mercy. 

Bill had one in each hand. A fingertip breaching the boy's eager, tight hole; two fingers caressing the girl's wet pussy. They were both pliant under his ministrations, up on their tippie toes, desperate for him. 

"Which one of you wants my cock more?" he asked, and it wasn't hard to sound stern and angry. 

"Me, daddy, fuck me!" Debbie laughed that cruel, condescending laugh of hers. She wiggled back enthusiastically on Bill's thick fingers. 

Holden was quiet, the way he sometimes was during sex, but he trembled with his whole body as Bill let a second finger slip inside. He gasped. Both of the little sluts strained at their cuffs, struggling ineffectively. 

Bill pulled back and slapped them both on the ass. Everybody in the room knew they could slip out of their cuffs before Bill could blink. Everybody in the room knew he was the real prisoner. 

He chose Holden. He hated Holden more, so it was easier. 

The kid’s hole was already slicked up. Bill gave Debbie another hard rub, making her groan, and then swiped her wetness over his cock. He shoved into Holden hard and fast, and Holden cried out, and the pain sounded real. Bill smirked. 

—

It had been almost a year since Bill had set foot outside this apartment. Almost two years since Holden Ford had quietly broken into his home and destroyed his world. 

The BSU had been tracking a prolific serial killer who turned out to be a secret shadow government assassin. Their investigation exposed the BSU to the mysterious _organization_ — specifically the assassin, Holden fucking Ford, who was so delighted to have finally been discovered that he decided Bill fucking Tench was the love of his life. 

Bill, of course, did not have a say in the matter. 

After terrorizing Bill in his house, Holden Ford disappeared for six months and the BSU found no other trace of him. He just went cold. 

To his credit, Bill never _truly_ believed Holden was gone or that his string of murders was over. It was frustrating that they couldn't figure out how Holden changed his MO, couldn't link him to any other crimes — but at the same time, it was a relief. Bill knew it couldn't be true, but it was nice to pretend, sometimes, that Holden was out of his life forever.

One cloudy day, a day that had started out so promisingly normal, Bill went upstairs to the cafeteria to get lunch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw — oh, shit. He tried to stay calm as he paid for his tray, and cased the area a bit before reacting. 

Holden was sitting at a far table, wearing a dark suit and tie and an FBI security badge. He looked to all the world as if he belonged there. He had a lunch tray on his table, with a stupid carton of milk, a stupid sandwich, a stupid apple, _and_ a stupid banana. Bill hated him so fucking much. 

Holden was sitting with a young woman who wore the sweatshirt of an FBI agent trainee. They were deep in friendly conversation. Nobody around them noticed anything was wrong. 

Bill had several thoughts at once. He had his sidearm; if he was quick and steady enough he could probably shoot Holden from here. But he had no idea who the young agent trainee was, and he didn't want to put her in danger. In that light, every other option would take too long. He had to get between Holden and the trainee. 

So, like a fucking moron, he approached the table. 

Holden noticed him coming, _obviously_ , and looked up with that unnerving little smile. "Hi, Bill," he said cheerfully. 

"Oh, _this_ is Bill," said the girl, and Bill's heart plummeted. He was fucked. His own stupid sense of chivalry, who would have guessed? 

"Sit down, Bill," Holden said, very politely moving his tray to make room. 

Bill had gotten just close enough for the girl to discreetly hold something that glinted sharply near his leg. A stiletto knife, he would guess, or a syringe. She could sedate him, or cut him, and if she was anything like Holden, she knew exactly where to cut that nobody could save his life.

So, he sat. But he didn't have to like it. He glowered at Holden.

"Wow, he _is_ a grump," said the girl. "You weren't kidding."

Holden looked amused, eyes bright. "This is my friend, Debbie." 

"Hello," said Debbie. 

Bill kept glowering. 

Holden managed to look hurt. "Come on, now. I've told her so much about you. The least you could do is say hello. You're both very important people to me." 

"Hi, Debbie. It's nice to meet you, Debbie." The girl grinned. She had a smile that was wide, and shrewd, and a lot more human than Holden's. It was still sharp and cruel. 

Bill narrowed his eyes at her. 

"Oh, Bill," sighed Holden. "Are you still upset with me? After that special night we shared?"

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Bill managed to spit out. 

Holden smiled brightly. "We came to get you."

"To get me," Bill said flatly. 

"Uh huh. Had to pull a lot of strings, too." Holden checked his watch. "We should probably go now." 

"Go where?"

"Don't worry about it, Bill," Holden said breezily. 

"I'm not going any fucking where with you."

Debbie leaned forward, and the sharp metallic whatever was in her hand just barely touched his leg. "Bill, you're really going to want to come with us," she said.

At this point, Holden was already standing. When Bill reluctantly got up, Holden passed by him closely and then was fiddling with his own jacket, and Bill realized the smug little psychopath had lifted his sidearm. 

"If you think I'm going to go quietly without —”

"Bill, if you don't leave here with us, you're going to die," Holden leaned in and whispered in his ear. "And then who's going to take care of your wife and kid?"

Bill glowered and grit his teeth. What choice did he have? He swallowed a tight ball of rage that was stuck in his throat. He closed his eyes in assent, in defeat, hoping against hope that _somebody_ in this room of so-called federal agents would notice something was wrong.

Holden grabbed the apple and carton of milk off the tray. “Waste not, want not. Are you parked nearby, Bill?”

Bill only nodded.

“Great. Let’s go for a ride.”

They let Bill lead them out, flanking him tightly, Debbie’s weapon at his thigh and always on his mind. He surely looked like he was in charge, the senior agent leading out his proteges. That contrast would set the tone for the next two years. 

Bill walked them out to his car in the lot, and the little bastards made small talk the entire fucking time. They mentioned his name once or twice, but Bill could only hear blood rushing in his ears, and his vision was starting to narrow.

They got to the car and he white-knuckled the steering wheel, gasping for air, while Holden slipped in behind him and Debbie got in the passenger seat.

He flinched when Holden rubbed his shoulder a little too hard to be comforting. “Relax, Bill.”

“What the fuck are you going to do to me?”

“Nothing, Bill. We’re taking you somewhere safe.”

Bill’s breath came even faster. “Nowhere is safe with you,” he spat.

“Agent Tench, shh,” Debbie said, pushing the sharp thing in her hand closer to him. “Take a deep breath. Listen to us.”

“You’ve already lost, Bill,” Holden said matter-of-factly. “But if you do as we say, I promise Nancy and Brian will be safe.”

Their names in that mouth made Bill flinch. With great effort, he forced his breathing to slow, and relaxed his death grip on the wheel.

“Good man,” said Holden. “Now let’s head north.”

They were down the street, almost out of view, when the FBI Academy building exploded.

—

Bill went into some kind of soldier-trained shock when the building blew up, his rear view window a bright flash of white and red. For as long as he’d live, he’d never forget the sound.

“What the fuck is going on?” he shouted, but his hands were steady on the wheel, his eyes straight forward.

“Never mind that,” said Holden. “Just keep driving. Debbie, I wonder if we can put on some music?”

Debbie turned on the radio, and found some space rock. Amazingly, the station was not covering the news of the explosion, even as several ambulances and police cars sped by Bill in the opposite direction.

Holden directed him down various streets until they turned into a side alley where a prisoner transport van was waiting. Several policemen approached the car.

“Don’t worry,” said Debbie. “The police are on our side.”

“That can’t possibly be true,” said Bill.

“Well, _these_ police are on our side,” Debbie grinned. “Out you get, Bill.”

Holden was already out of the car and talking to the officers. As soon as Bill got out, the cops frisked him. His ID badge, wallet, cigarettes, even the spare change in his pocket was all lifted.

“Give him back his cigarettes and lighter,” said Holden.

“No lighter,” replied one of the cops. 

Holden pursed his lips unhappily. “At least give him his cigarettes so he can… I don’t know…”

The officer sighed. He tipped out Bill’s carton, and gave him six naked cigarettes.

“I guess that’s the best I can do,” sighed Holden.

“What’s to stop me from hanging myself with my tie?” quipped Bill.

Holden looked puzzled. “Nancy and Brian,” he said, like it was obvious.

Bill glowered at him. The officers bundled him into the transport van, and cuffed one of his hands to the wall. 

To his surprise, Holden climbed up into the van as well. “Here.” The kid gave him the apple and the carton of milk. “It’s going to be a long ride.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m not coming with you,” Holden pouted. “It’s going to be a while before you’ll see me again. But I promise I’ll look after your family, and I’ll come get you when this is over. It’ll be hard, but you can tough it out. Be patient, okay?” He leaned down and kissed Bill on the mouth.

Bill didn’t return the kiss. He scowled up at Holden as the kid touched his face gingerly.

“Holden.” Debbie’s soft voice was suddenly near them. She slipped something to Holden, and then stepped out of the van.

“Thank you, Debbie.” Holden smiled, and discreetly slid a hand into Bill’s pocket. A lighter. “I’ll see you as soon as I can.” He kissed Bill again, and then left, and Bill was shut up in the transport van.

—

He spent the next five months shut up somewhere.

The van ride was long — about six hours, if his internal clock was right, with no windows to tell him where he was. Easily out of state by then. They put a bag over his head when they arrived wherever it was they arrived at, and the next thing he saw was the inside of a cell for one.

It was worse than solitary confinement in that he didn’t even get one hour of yard time a day, and the guards would barely talk to him. 

But he was not treated as if he was dangerous. They gave him cigarettes and matches, a newspaper every day, notebooks, Playboys, even pencils. They obviously didn’t think he would hurt himself— he had no idea what would happen to Nancy and Brian if he wasn’t around anymore. He didn’t see any upside in being anything other than a model prisoner, if his and his family’s continued existence depended on Holden’s affection for him.

So he kept himself on a military-like routine. Awake as soon as the lights came on, bed made, cell tidied. He was in a prison jumpsuit by now, no name on the back, and he kept his small collection of clothes neatly cared for. He did as much exercise as he could in the space that he had, and gained muscle even as he got leaner. When he was tired or discouraged, he’d imagine strangling the life out of Holden Ford when this was all over.

They would let him shower after breakfast, and he was always alone in the shower room. He knew there were other people in this prison— sometimes he heard them bring in someone new, shouting or sobbing, and he’d stand by his door and listen, but he was never able to glean who those other prisoners were. He did not know if they were all being kept isolated from each other, or if he was special.

They would give him razors and let him shave, but he couldn’t take the razor back to the cell with him, not that he planned to do anything with it. They even let him clip his hair once a month.

After his shower, he’d get to reading the newspaper front to back. He’d read every article, the classifieds, the personals, the funnies. And then he’d read them again.

He kept four journals. One to document his dreams— he didn’t tell anyone this, but he’d cracked more than one case after making some connection in his dreams. Nothing so far, as his dreams mostly involved either maintaining this dreary little cell, or murdering Holden Ford in increasingly creative ways. Another journal was full of imaginary letters to Nancy, to remind himself to stay healthy and sane.

The third journal kept record of his days in the prison, and what he could figure out what was going on in the world. The fourth was an addendum to this. It’s where he kept all the clues he thought he might be seeing in the papers, hidden puzzles and messages. It didn’t seem to be leading anywhere. It was probably the journal of a madman, but he thought he had nothing to lose, and made himself spend an hour on it every day.

According to the Washington Post, which was the only newspaper he was given, a large series of coordinated terrorist attacks against every level of the government had taken out almost everything— the FBI, the CIA, the Pentagon, the White House, and Congress had all been bombed on the same day. The President was killed, along with most House and Senate representatives. Several smaller government offices had been bombed as well, along with military posts and police precincts. There was at least one attack in every state.

The loss of life was huge, and the government itself was more or less purged— that’s the only real word for it. Most federal elected officials were gone. About 60% of the FBI, CIA, and other federal agencies were dead. It was complete chaos. And nobody knew who was doing the purging.

In the weeks after the fact, it truly looked as though a military coup or a civil war was a very real possibility. Bill, unable to do anything for his wife and child from his cell except worry, doubled down on his routine.

As time went on, and the shock of the situation wore off, he got morose. Learning that the majority of the FBI staff was dead — at the very least, everyone in the building at the time of the explosion — was too much to effect him. Eventually he had time to consider them individually. Shepard, Greg; all the young agents he’d mentored in the BSU, his unit, the one he’d built from scratch over the years. All gone. At least some of the cops he’d known from road school.

Wendy.

She had left to meet an academic colleague for lunch earlier that day. Had she returned by then? Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she had some dangerous, scholar-type friends in the underground who were keeping her hidden. She wasn’t actually FBI, anyway. She didn’t have to be purged.

But Bill would never know that. At night, in the dark, he’d let himself cry quietly, but only a little. Just enough. In the daylight, he would channel that despair into fury, cross-body crunches on the floor, flinging his fists over his knees at the top, practicing for the day he would finally kill Holden Ford. 

_That smug little psychopath better come soon,_ he’d think. The uncertainty was killing him. The guilt was killing him. If he had caught Holden sooner, would any of this be happening?

But Holden was only a foot soldier for his mysterious _organization_ , whoever it was behind this mass purge and chaos. Important enough that he could keep Bill alive, perhaps, but certainly not one of the key decision makers in this thing. As far as Bill knew, Holden Ford liked stabbing people, cutting off their dicks, and sucking Bill’s cock. Admittedly, Bill didn’t know very much about Holden besides his criminal profile. But he couldn’t imagine the violent little hair-trigger being interested in such grand political machinations. 

This dampened things somewhat. This meant that when Holden came for him, Bill wouldn’t be able to kill him right away. He’d have to wait to learn more.

Bill suspected the Washington Post’s reporting was incomplete, or not very thorough, or tightly controlled. A mix of all three. Things seemed to go back to normal surprisingly fast, though Bill supposed that even in a war zone, people had to get on with their lives. 

A new political party emerged in the chaos, in the fears of a coup or a civil war. An honest-to-god viable third party in the United States. They had what remained of the military and police forces on their side, so it _was_ a coup, basically. 

Nobody seemed to be looking for the terrorists anymore. Several different organizations — who couldn’t possibly have pulled it off, in Bill’s estimation — were taking credit. The public seemed content with that, and certainly didn’t want to look a third party gift horse in the mouth.

They called themselves the _Unity Party_ , which turned Bill’s stomach. When an emergency election was called, they swept it clean, and the country had a new president and a new Congress that were all on the same page. The remaining staff of the FBI and other agencies were fired and the institutes built from scratch. Not much outcry over that, given how badly the previous agencies had failed.

Within five months, the new world order was here.

And finally, probably after killing who knows how many people to usher in that new world order, Holden came for Bill.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill arrives at his new home.

To be precise, Bill went to Holden.

The guards interrupted his breakfast one morning. They bundled him into another windowless van, and they drove for the better part of the day. Eventually Bill drifted into sleep. They woke him to put another bag over his head, and take him inside somewhere.

He listened carefully and did not struggle. It was brisk out, and slightly humid. He heard traffic and sirens in the near distance, and the soft coo of pigeons. So an urban area. Didn’t exactly narrow it down.

They brought him inside, and then they were in an elevator. When the bag came off his head, Bill was standing inside a large apartment. 

There was only one guard with him, and he heard the door click several times— locked from the outside. The guard, dressed in the same uniform as in the prison, undid Bill’s cuffs.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where we are,” said Bill, voice croaking from disuse. 

The guard avoided his gaze and stepped back to stand by the door. 

Bill rubbed his wrists and rolled his eyes. He looked around the apartment. It looked like an old colonial townhouse that had been converted into units, not that Bill knew a ton about architecture. The door opened to a short vestibule, then a large kitchen and living area where he stood.

It was almost aggressively plain. If it wasn’t for the age of the building and areas of exposed brick, the place would have no character at all.

Bill poked around. The guard followed him quietly, always staying a few large paces away.

There was a balcony off the living room with some cheap patio furniture. It overlooked the back of the building, with a narrow access street that didn’t appear to get a lot of traffic. His view of the main streets was partially obscured. The balcony faced a squat building, a warehouse with no windows.

Bill estimated the apartment was on the fifth and top floor. It matched his colonial townhouse theory, if an unexpectedly tall one. It was higher than the warehouse, and had a view of a flat, wide, grey river in the distance.

In the vestibule, there was a board of wires, upon which were fastened about a hundred different locks of all types. Bill guessed it was to practice lock picking.

The first bedroom he peeked into was full of workout equipment; stacks of weights, a speed bag, jump ropes, a pull-up bar.

There was a television in the living room, but when Bill turned it on, all he got was a blue screen. The TV was pressed up against a waist-high wooden bar across the windows, the purpose of which Bill couldn’t guess. There was also a treadmill facing the TV in a far corner.

“When’s he coming home?” Bill asked the guard, not expecting a response. He wondered if Holden was dumb enough to leave any weapons in here. Probably not.

A quick rifle through the kitchen had the guard tensing, though, hand falling to what Bill guessed was a stun gun at his hip. But Bill knew Holden wouldn’t even blink at Bill coming at him with a kitchen knife.

The fridge was almost bare, except for a glass jug of milk. Bill frowned.

There was a bathroom with a large clawfoot tub. And the other bedroom— Bill half expected to see a full-on bondage set up. It was just a normal room. It may as well have been a hotel room, except there wasn’t even any art on the walls.

There was a large wardrobe. On one side were a set of perfectly nondescript and boring clothes, mostly button down shirts and suits, and a few work shirts that could blend in any number of places-- uniforms, coveralls. On the other side was an entirely different set of clothes in a bigger size. Bill’s size. Some plush polo shirts, cardigans. Bill recognized the same suit jacket Holden had given him and then stolen back from his house.

He closed the wardrobe with a shiver.

Bill went back out into the living room when the door’s locks clicked again. In came Holden Ford, laden down with multiple grocery bags.

“You’re here!” Holden beamed. He looked exactly the same as he did half a year ago.

Bill didn’t respond.

“Don’t be grouchy,” Holden pouted. “I got you cigarettes.” The guard helped him carry in all the bags and set them on the kitchen counter. “You can go,” Holden dismissed him, and Bill tried not to swallow too hard as the guard left him alone with his captor.

Holden was rigid with excitement. He smiled his unnerving little non-smile as he took Bill in. “Look at you. Oh. You’ve… lost weight?”

Bill glared.

Holden was still gawking at him like a piece of meat. “You’ve lost body fat. But not muscle mass. Wow. Your arms must be—”

“You keep your fucking hands off me!” 

Holden bit his lip, looking like he was holding back a laugh. “Okay, Bill. Why don’t I make you dinner? I got your favourites.”

He started unloading the grocery bags— cuts of steak, baking potatoes, vegetables. A paper bag full of beer, whiskey, and other liquors. Bill’s brand of cigarettes.

Bill flinched. He didn’t want Holden to cook his dinner. “Where is my wife?” he demanded.

“She’s fine.”

“ _Where_ is she?”

“Bill, I’ve had a long day,” sighed Holden.

“ _You’ve_ had a long day?” Bill caught the little bastard by the neck, and shoved him against the wall, hard. He squeezed that arrogant throat. “Where the fuck is my wife?!”

Holden had the audacity to grin at him, even as he gripped Bill’s arms defensively. “You hurt me at all,” he wheezed, “and she dies.”

Bill didn’t let go right away, which was something that would haunt him forever. He let up on Holden, but kept him pinned against the wall. “How do I know she’s alive now?”

Holden coughed a little. His hands were still clutching at Bill. He rubbed his thumbs against Bill’s arms appreciatively. “I was right about your arms. Mmm…”

Bill shoved Holden into the wall again and stomped away, fists clenched.

“Can you at least let me make dinner before you interrogate me?” Holden asked after a few more coughs. “I promise she’s fine. Don’t you want to get changed? Have a bath? Here.” Holden flicked a packet of cigarettes and a lighter down the counter.

Bill grit his teeth. He took the cigarettes.

“Please only smoke on the balcony,” Holden said, getting out a cutting board. Bill glared at his back, fighting the urge to attack the kid again.

Bill smoked on the balcony. He wanted to enjoy being outside again after so many months locked up, but he couldn’t. He took a shower after, taking note of his arguable privacy, but still not enjoying it.

When he got out, the apartment was full of the aroma of grilling steak. Bill’s stomach rumbled.

He shut the bedroom door behind him, and stared at the collection of clothes that were meant to be his, swallowing hard. He finally selected a pair of slacks and a polo shirt, and went out into the living room barefoot.

Holden was setting the table for two. The lights were dimmed. There were fucking candles on the table, a real romantic scene. 

The bastard lit up when he saw Bill. “Don’t you feel better?” After a long beat when Bill didn’t answer, Holden continued on as if he had. “Well, you look great. Please, sit.”

Bill did, and Holden put food in front of him— grilled vegetables, a baked potato with sour cream, chives, and bacon bits, and a seasoned steak just barely charred on the outside.

“Would you like a beer? Or whiskey?” Holden asked. “I could make you a martini. I’m a trained bartender.” 

_Among other things_ was left unspoken.

“Just water is fine,” said Bill.

There was a brief look on Holden’s face, eyes falling slightly, mouth tensing. Disappointment? But he turned away, and got Bill his water and himself a glass of milk.

“Did they feed you well?” The little psycho asked as he sat across from Bill. “You look leaner, but…”

“They fed me fine,” said Bill.

“I just don’t want you to get sick if this is too much.”

“They didn’t _starve_ me.” 

“Good.” Holden nodded approvingly. “Well, go ahead. Dig in.” When Bill only stared at him, Holden smiled. “Bill, I’m not going to poison you after going through all that to get you. Here. See?” He reached across the table and cut a small piece off Bill’s steak. Ate it.

Bill _was_ ravenous, and while he hadn’t starved, nobody ever misses prison food. He reluctantly dug into his meal, and _oh, fuck_. The meat was red in the middle, exactly the way he liked it, and it fell apart in his mouth. He made a little noise despite himself.

Holden looked satisfied. “I’m glad you like it. I had some culinary training, too. Anything you want me to make, just ask.”

Bill ate slowly. He was sure Holden was trained in a lot of things. _What a waste of potential,_ he thought, _in the service of murder and mayhem._

“I’m sorry you had to wait so long,” Holden said between his own bites, when it became clear that Bill wasn’t going to make conversation. “Did they treat you well? I told them you weren’t to be treated like the other prisoners.”

“It was fine.” Bill shrugged. “They mostly left me alone.”

Holden started. “Not _completely_ alone, though, right?”

Bill just kept eating.

“Oh.” Holden put down his utensils. “I’m sorry, Bill. I just wanted to keep you safe. I certainly didn’t want you in _solitary_.” He almost managed to look distressed. “Did they at least give you books? I told them to give you the paper, and your Playboys.”

Bill nodded. “The paper, the Playboys. They let me keep notebooks. I didn’t go nuts.”

Holden sighed in relief. “They must have been afraid of you talking to the other prisoners. I had to call in all my favours to save you, but it could only go so far. I guess I should be flattered they let me keep you at all.” His lashes fluttered a bit. 

“Where’s Nancy?” Bill grunted.

Holden inclined his head. “Nancy and Brian are living in a women and children’s community in Iowa. This particular community was designed for children with special needs.” 

“ _Special needs_?” Bill couldn’t help the knee-jerk reaction of offence. “My son is not a _retard_.”

Holden looked confused. “Nobody said he was, Bill.” 

Bill dropped his fork and knife and rubbed his face. His leg jiggled with nerves. “I’m worried about my family, Holden. I wish you’d give me a straight answer.”

“I did give you a straight answer. They’re perfectly safe.”

“This fabulous, egalitarian order of yours has already given my son a label and put him in an institution,” Bill spat. This was a story he’d heard a lot in the BSU’s research, and he didn’t like it.

“It’s not an _institution_ ,” Holden sighed. He went back to eating. 

“They’ve singled him out. How are they going to treat kids like Brian?”

Holden looked thoughtful. “Not great,” he admitted. “But it’s no worse than the way things were before. I would know. I was a kid like Brian.” 

If that wasn’t the last thing Bill ever wanted to hear. “You are nothing like my son,” he sneered.

“From what I’ve seen, I was. I didn’t like being touched, but that didn’t stop people from touching me. I didn’t like to talk much, because I had nothing to say. Bet you wish I’d stop talking and touching so much now, huh?” Holden winked.

Bill slammed his hands on the table. “Don’t ever fucking compare yourself to my son again.” 

Holden looked impressed. He raised his hands in apology. “You’re right, Bill. In every _other_ way, Brian and I are nothing alike. He has very nice parents, for one thing.” He smiled brightly, like he couldn’t even imagine why Bill was upset.

(A small part of Bill’s analytical mind wanted to have a long conversation with Wendy about this. About nature and nurture, and what kind of stressors would take a psychopath or narcissist on a road of murder and castration, rather than sustaining their egos through other means. About what could have been done to prevent this. But that ship had sailed. He shut that part of his mind up.)

“It’s a really nice place,” Holden went on. “It’s a _planned community_. There were a lot of widows left over after everything, and we’re taking care of them.”

“So Nancy is a widow.”

“Officially.”

Bill wasn’t sure how to ask. “She thinks I’m dead.”

Holden rolled his eyes. “No, Bill. Debbie paid her a visit right after we got you.”

“ _Debbie_ paid her a _visit_?”

“We thought it would be better coming from her,” Holden said, misunderstanding Bill’s horror. “Not as scary. She was on high alert after you put her in a safe house, after all.”

“Debbie was in the _safe house_?” 

“Is that really surprising to you? It’s not like we didn’t know about it.” 

“I want proof of life.”

“Of course.”

“You know, you could have saved me a lot of grief if you had let me communicate with her.” 

“Oh!” Holden straightened up. “I’m an idiot. Sorry, Bill.” He rose from his seat. “I collected letters for you. I didn’t know where you were being held, so I couldn’t pass them on. They wanted to punish me by cutting us off. Really made me work for you. I hope you appreciate it.”

He’d gone over to the bookshelf in the living room. Bill had seen _Catcher in the Rye_ on the shelf and kept on walking. He’d bet serious money it was the inscribed copy that Holden had sent him during his campaign of terror. 

Holden took a women’s shoebox off the shelf. “We told her the truth— that you were being held in protective custody until things blew over. That you were _officially_ dead, but we were going to keep you around because you’re special.”

Bill gingerly opened the shoebox. Dozens of letters were stacked in there, envelopes sliced open at the top. He’d guess they were sent at a frequency of one letter a week, maybe with a few weeks missing. He felt a choke in his chest, a well of sadness that this beautiful woman had kept it up so diligently for him.

There was a not-insignificant part of him that had assumed she would write him off as dead and get on with her life.  

Or hoped she would.

“Does she still believe you? That I’m alive?”

“I don’t know.” Holden went back to his dinner.

“These have all been opened.”

“That wasn’t me. I haven’t read them.” Holden sounded bored.

Bill closed the box. Looking at the letters was getting overwhelming.

“Nancy’s a civilian,” he said softly. “She wasn’t privy to any FBI intelligence.” 

Holden tilted his head and thought for a bit. “Yes,” he finally said. “If you had been killed, as planned, nothing would happen to Nancy. But I took a vested interest in her, on your behalf. Debbie helped. We got her fast-tracked into the women’s community.”

“She’s a nurse,” said Bill. He stubbornly wiped at his eyes before they got too wet. “She would have been fine.” 

“Yes,” agreed Holden. “But it would have been harder.”

“She’s a civilian,” Bill said again.

“Yes, Bill.” Holden was starting to sound puzzled.

“But if I hurt you, or escape... or upset you, presumably... you’ll kill her.”

Bill really, really hoped that Holden would show even the smallest hint of empathy or concern, something he could work with. If anything, Holden looked more robotic than ever.

“I have no interest in hurting Nancy or Brian,” he said after a thoughtful pause. “But I am a very valuable asset to the organization. If you killed me— not that you could— or hurt me badly enough, they wouldn’t hesitate to retaliate. Nancy is nothing to them.

“As for escape— honestly, I don’t think you’d make it very far. I admire you very much, Bill, but let’s be realistic. You couldn’t take down all the guards and snipers around here. If you somehow _did_ escape, they would almost certainly ransom Nancy to get you back for me.”

“Why me?” Bill shook his head. “My entire career was about criminal psychology. I wasn’t part of Intelligence. I’m not _important_."

“Don’t sell yourself short, Bill. You don’t think your work could have applications in suppressing resistance? You could be an asset in your own right if you put your mind to it.” Holden put his chin in his hand and raked his gaze across Bill appraisingly. 

Bill stared at him.

“Anyway, you’re important to me. And I’m important to them.” Holden smiled blandly. “Once I’ve worked myself back into their good graces after calling in all my favours, I’ll be able to demand whatever I want again. They’d get you back for me. I can throw a pretty mean tantrum.”

“So if I escape, I’ll die,” Bill said. “If I kill you…” he wasn’t about to say _Nancy dies_. “And if I upset you?”

Holden straightened up. “Hmm. I suppose if you really displeased me, yes. I’d hurt Nancy if I had to. She’s the only tool I have to control you. But I really don’t think you’ll displease me. Everything you do just makes me like you more.”

Bill had lost his appetite some time ago. He resisted slumping over the table. 

“Do you have any other questions for me?” 

Well, whatever. “The letters were addressed to a PO box in Cleveland,” Bill said.

Holden nodded. “We’re in Columbus. You can write to Nancy and I’ll send them for you, but no, neither of you will know where exactly the other lives.”

“I presume you’ll be reading the letters I send.”

“ _Someone_ will read what you send, and redact accordingly. I’d err on the side of caution if you think anything you say could put her in danger. I can’t imagine what that would be at this point, though.”

“But you want me to give _you_ the letters.”

Holden smiled a self-serving little smile. “I am _very_ curious about what you’ll tell her about me. But if you don’t want me to read them, Bill, I won’t. Promise.”

As if Bill was ever going to believe that. “So this is your place?”

“It’s one of my places. I’m here the most often. I hope you come to think of it as _your_ place.” Holden stood. “Come sit on the couch with me.”

Bill grudgingly followed. He sat on the far end of the couch from Holden.

Holden sighed. “Oh, Bill.” He scooted over, and tucked his feet under himself, cuddling up against Bill. “I know this isn’t ideal. But I don’t want you to be miserable here. I want to take care of you.”

He kissed Bill on the cheek.

Bill turned away, even as his skin grew hot. It had been five months since he’d touched another human, besides that initial scrap with Holden. Five months since he’d heard a kind word. Damn. Five months can do a lot to a person. 

“You looked around when you got here?” asked Holden.

“Yeah.”

“If there’s anything you want, just tell me. Maybe something for the workout room, or books. I have a video player, see?” He gestured at the TV. “There’s a catalogue, you can order any movie you want. Maybe an Atari?” 

“The hell’s an Atari?”

“It’s a little computer you hook up to the TV for video games. I sent one to Brian.”

“I suppose you want me to be grateful for that.”

“It would be nice.”

Bill scowled and looked away.

Holden stroked Bill’s arm, and played with the hair at the nape of Bill’s neck.

“Why did you have to do this?” Bill asked miserably.

“Do what?”

“This whole coup. Any of it. Do you really think things are going to be better?”

“Probably not,” shrugged Holden.

“So why did you have to kill so many people?”

“I have no idea. I just did as I was told. Isn’t that what soldiers like us do?”

“You’re not a soldier,” said Bill. “You’re a murderer.”

Holden stopped playing with Bill’s hair. Bill could feel Holden’s icy stare, but stubbornly looked away.

After a moment, Holden rested his head on Bill’s shoulder. “You know, not _everyone_ in the letter agencies died. Is there anybody you’d like me to track down for you?”

Bill was silent.

“Maybe Dr. Carr? Would you like to write to her, too?”

Bill turned sharply. “Wendy’s alive?”

“Yes. I found her when you were sent away from me. I was so bored without you to look after. I even have her books.”

Bill looked again at the bookshelf. Books, plural. Had she continued their work?

“I thought the universities would have been purged, too,” he said weakly.

Holden cuddled up to him again. “Maybe some were. That’s not my department. But she’s still around, last I checked. Do you want me to find her for you?”

“Yes,” Bill breathed.

Holden drew back. He sat up on his heels. “Bill, please look at me.”

Bill looked. 

Holden stared at him intently. He looked excited. “Will you ask me nicely for it?”

Bill closed his eyes. His heart sank, any good feeling about Wendy’s safety quickly snuffed out. He thought of Nancy.

He opened his eyes. “Holden, please put me in touch with Dr. Carr.”

Holden looked immensely pleased. His smile grew wide, and his eyes sparkled. “Okay, Bill,” he said.

Then he threw his arms around Bill’s shoulders and kissed and kissed.

Bill tried not to recoil too much. He closed his eyes and kept his mouth rigidly shut as Holden nibbled at his lips.

He heard Holden chuckle quietly. The kid pulled Bill’s arm around his waist loosely, giving him easier access to Bill’s body. He stroked Bill’s chest and thighs. “Look at you resisting,” he teased.

If Holden had been worried about Bill getting sick over too much food, he didn’t seem to give a shit about this. Bill going from five months without so much as shaking hands with someone, to soft lips kissing down his jaw, to experienced hands roaming over his neglected body, to the scent of youthful skin up against his face.

He couldn’t help but breathe deeply. He couldn’t help but tilt his head a little, lean his cheek against Holden’s. He hadn’t realized how touch-starved and craven he had become. Despite it, he managed to keep his hands off Holden. 

His cock had no qualms. Holden obviously knew what he was doing, and touched and rubbed Bill to hardness through his slacks just fine. Bill heard the little psychopath’s breath quicken upon that discovery. 

Bill hadn’t touched himself the entire five months he’d been locked up. After getting a little fresh air, a change of scenery, and a good meal, suddenly things were moving again.

“I love how you react to me,” Holden breathed. “You really like me.”

“No, I don’t,” Bill grumbled. He opened his eyes to glare at Holden, who was smiling at him sweetly.

“Your cock likes me,” the little bastard preened. “You think I’m cute.” He leaned forward and kissed Bill again, this time coaxing his mouth open, tongue poking inside with a surprising, curious timidity. 

Bill grudgingly kissed back, making Holden hum in pleasure. The boy opened Bill’s fly and stroked his dick out into the open.

He broke the kiss and looked down at Bill in wonder. “I really like your cock, Bill.” He sounded almost reverential. Suddenly, Holden fell to his knees between Bill’s thighs, and without so much as asking permission, took Bill into his mouth. 

Bill hissed, scrunching his face, screwing his eyes shut, biting his lip. He knew what it was going to feel like— he hadn’t stopped thinking about it, really, the time Holden broke into his home and gave him the best-worst blowjob of his life. He hated this, but after five months of darkness and loneliness, his body _loved_ it.

Holden pulled off him with a wet slurp. “Bill, look at me,” he ordered. He went back to fellating passionately as Bill looked down at him.

The worst part of this was how _good_ Holden was. He could take Bill all the way down his throat, but he winced and choked enough to indicate it was a struggle. He put quite a bit of effort into it, generating a lot of saliva, sucking hard, bobbing his head up and down. Bill had never had a partner perform anything on him so enthusiastically before.

Maybe this was all Holden would want him to do. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, objectively speaking, to come out of this national disaster with nothing worse than getting sucked off by some thirty-year-old every day. 

Bill could hope. 

He reached out and put his hands on Holden’s head.

Holden moaned loudly and obscenely, and set to his chosen task with renewed vigour, gripping Bill’s thighs tightly. 

The feeling of the little psychopath moaning around his cock did something to Bill, who grunted in return, and pulled at Holden’s hair. He started humping up harshly, gripping Holden’s head harder than he ever would have considered for another partner. 

“Fuck,” he grunted, and before he knew it— faster than he could recall happening before— he was coming.

Holden pulled away, gasping, and kept stroking Bill’s cock as he came all over his face. 

Bill panted, broken, and leaned back on the couch. He felt empty. He felt defeated.

Holden licked him clean, then rocked back to sit on his heels. He gazed up adoringly. “I’m so glad you’re here, Bill.”

Bill was unsure if he should respond to that as he tucked himself back into his slacks. He shifted uncomfortably under Holden’s scrutiny, didn’t know where to point his eyes. He had a feeling he was going to see a lot of his own spunk on Holden’s arrogant face in the future. He didn’t need to see it now.

Holden caressed Bill’s thighs softly. “You’ve had a day. Time for bed, I think?”

Bill let Holden take his hand and lead him to the bathroom, showed him where a new toothbrush was waiting for him. When Bill was done washing up, there was a pillow and a blanket lying on the couch. Holden had started doing dishes, his own erection bulging in his pants, Bill’s jism still on his face.

Holden noticed Bill looking at his crotch, and smiled. “It’s okay, Bill. I’m going to sleep on the couch tonight.”

Bill frowned. “You don’t…” but he wasn’t even sure what he was about to say.

“It’s okay. I want to ease you in,” said Holden. He picked up the shoebox of Nancy’s letters and gave it to Bill. “Come here.”

Holden led Bill into the bedroom and opened the top drawer of the wide dresser. “You can put your letters here. I won’t look in this drawer, it’s yours.”

Bill snorted.

“We can get a lock for it, if you want.”

“Oh, yeah? One you can’t pick open?”

Holden blinked. “I know it’s hard for you to trust me. I realize that. But I’ve only ever told you the truth, Bill. If you want to lock this drawer, I promise I won’t open it.” He reached out and touched Bill’s arm gently. “I’m going to work really hard to get you to trust me.” He almost sounded sad.

Bill was quiet. Holden looked up at him, and leaned a little bit closer, but then seemed to think better of whatever he was about to do. 

He patted Bill’s arm gently. “Good night, Bill.” He went out of the bedroom. “I love you,” he said very, very quietly, just before he closed the door.

Bill stared at the door, waiting to hear the click of a lock. None came.

—

Of course Bill didn’t sleep that night. It wasn’t just his nerves, or his anger, or the sharp curve of adjustment after being locked in a tiny cell for so long. It wasn’t that he heard Holden take a shower later, the old pipes of the colonial townhouse clanking, or that the ambient light of the city through drawn curtains was brighter than the pitch dark he had grown accustomed to.

It was that he had to lie awake and scheme.

At first, it really seemed helpless. Even if he were to get away from Holden and somehow escape the organization, it’s not like he could put anything back together again. The good guys had lost. The world had gone on without him.

But until he knew Nancy and Brian were off the organization’s radar, out of Holden’s grip as a _tool with which he could control Bill_ , Bill wouldn’t ever be able to rest.

And Wendy was alive. This was new information. This changed things. He wasn’t sure how yet, but surely it did.

The way Bill saw it, his life’s goal at this point was to ensure Nancy and Brian’s safety. Attacking or killing Holden, or escaping from the apartment, would have the opposite effect. So he had to figure out some other way.

 _I wonder if you could make him defect,_ said his imagination in the shape of Dr. Wendy Carr, sharply dressed, brow furrowed. _If you could transfer his loyalty away from the organization, and to you._

She didn’t sound much like Wendy Carr— well, Bill wasn’t even sure of that anymore. But he didn’t really need her to sound like herself. He needed a counter to argue with, and in the good old days, that had always been Wendy.

 _Holden Ford is not loyal to anyone but himself,_ Bill thought bitterly. 

_Indulge me for a moment, Bill,_ said imaginary Wendy. _Holden has spent almost half his life working for the organization. It’s the only job he’s ever had, and certainly the longest relationship. He never even stayed in the same school or boys' home for very long._

Bill was contemplative.

 _I think he’s fiercely loyal to the organization,_ said Wendy. _But he’s not getting his emotional needs met, which is why he’s transferring them to you. The first thing he said to you was that he liked that you saw him for who he was._ She smoothed down her skirt, and came to sit primly on Bill’s bed, by his feet. _What if you could exploit that? Make him think you understand him, and that you can appreciate and care for him more than the organization does?_

 _You want me to have empathy for him_ , Bill scowled.

 _You’ve manufactured empathy for killers before,_ said imaginary Wendy. _Granted for much briefer periods and much lower stakes, but…_

 _It would help me gather intelligence,_ Bill admitted. _The little bastard likes talking about himself. He’d probably like it more if I was interested._

 _It’s certainly worth a try,_ agreed imaginary Wendy. _Make him think you’re on his side._

Bill shifted under his sheets. _Let’s say I can do this. Gain his loyalty. Then what? If I get him to betray his boss, they’ll kill my family._

 _Maybe you can get him to ensure their safety first,_ offered Wendy. _If he knows the only way to retain your devotion to him is by keeping them safe, and you’ve transferred his loyalty from the organization to you, maybe he would protect them personally._

_And then… we all run away to Canada together, the four of us? Five, if I can get you? One big, happy family._

_It’s an imperfect plan, admittedly,_ said Wendy. _But it’s early days, yet. We’ll find something, Bill. Write to Nancy. Maybe you can find a way to prepare her._

Bill nodded. _Maybe I can get Nancy to sneak off to Canada or something without tipping Holden off._

Imaginary Wendy frowned. _I find that unlikely. But from what you’ve told me about her, Nancy is clever. Maybe she can read between the lines._

Bill nodded again. He didn’t think of anything for a long time. _I hope you’re okay,_ he finally thought.

Imaginary Wendy smiled warmly. _Write me and find out._

Bill shook his head. _I can’t trust that anything is real anymore. And I don’t want to accidentally put you in danger._

Wendy tilted her head. _I’m not your responsibility, Bill. I told you, you don’t have to be the good soldier anymore. The war is over._

 _Not for me,_ Bill thought miserably. 

Imaginary Wendy sighed a sympathetic little sigh.

 _So how do I make him fall in love?_ Bill thought after a long while.

 _He already thinks he_ does _love you. You’re halfway there,_ said imaginary Wendy. _Just perform the part of the person he loves. Figure out what you represent to him, what unmet need you’re fulfilling._

 _More intelligence gathering,_ Bill frowned.

 _Yes._ Wendy nodded. _You know, he probably experiences love and sex entirely differently than the rest of us. Rape seems totally normal to him. He clearly had some terribly violent formative sexual experiences. You might not have to be nice at all. He might like it more if you’re mean to him. But I think the stakes are too high to try that right off the bat._

Bill sighed. He wasn’t feeling up for being _either_ mean or nice to Holden fucking Ford. 

_Honestly, the best way to do this, I think, is to make Holden believe you love him._ Imaginary Wendy gave voice to the thought Bill didn’t want to think.

 _But what does he think love looks like?_ Bill wondered.

 _That’s the million dollar question,_ said imaginary Wendy. 

_What if he makes me…_ Bill thought.

Imaginary Wendy smiled wryly at him. _Fuck him?_

 _Or worse?_ Bill worried. _What if he makes me do something violent to him? Or wants to do it to me?_

 _I can see why that would be hard for you. You don’t even like Hustler,_ said Wendy. He imagined her patting his foot. _Just try to remember that if you love someone, you try new things for them. Maybe… think about how you love Nancy, and you’re really doing it for her._

Bill sighed heavily. _How do I act like that without getting Stockholm Syndrome?_

 _Is that something you’re really worried about?_ asked Wendy. _You’ve thought of nothing except how much you hate him for the past half a year. In any case, honestly… Stockholm Syndrome might help._

So, there it was. The beginnings of a plan. Gather intelligence. Manufacture empathy for Holden. Get Holden to ensure Nancy and Brian’s safety— thus relinquishing his one means of control over Bill. Could he do it?

Really, what did he have to lose? 

_Make him think you love him. Make him fall in love. Make him defect._

_And then what?_

Imaginary Wendy was gone. She would not have liked this part of the debate.

“Then I’ll finally kill Holden Ford.”


End file.
